


Meanwhile...

by wintercoat



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 07:19:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14950112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercoat/pseuds/wintercoat
Summary: Connor is loitering in his peripheral vision, his officious shoulder angel. “What are you doing, Lieutenant?”“Questioning my life choices.”





	Meanwhile...

NOV 6TH, 2038

AM **12:52** :48

The CyberLife people are on the scene before Hank’s ears have stopped ringing. A pair of drones-- looking for all the world like disappointed parents-- peer into Connor’s face with their LEDs cycling coolly between blue and yellow. It takes three officers to lift Connor and slide him into a body bag. He has to go in head first, and Hank looks away as if the thing deserves some dignity. Chris’ despondent hand on his shoulder tells him that right now, humans aren’t needed.

 

AM **01:40** :00

_“Holy shit!”_

Hank knew he’d regret saying that when the tapes were reviewed.

“Go back,” rumbles Fowler. He’s taken off his tie and shoes but left his badge on. They’ve been studying this trainwreck frame-by-frame for an hour. Every cell in Hank’s body wants to leave. Instead he swipes his finger across the console, scrubbing the footage back to the start; the part where the interrogation folded.

[PLAY]

The deviant starts smashing its face on the table. Everyone has chosen a wall and is backed up against it. There is a lot of shouting going on. Not a lot of doing. All training forgotten. Fowler shakes his head slowly, which speaks of the hellfire in store for Hank when he gets back upstairs.

Now the deviant has the gun. It takes aim and fires. Plastic Detective: dead. Hank still sees those wide open eyes. The deviant jams the barrel under its chin, and the second shot rings out. A spray of Thirium hits the camera lens.

 _“Holy shit,”_ exclaims Hank onscreen, first to breach the black pit of silence. He is getting to his feet, staring around with his mouth hanging open. Gray and shambling, he looks like someone’s mislaid grandma.

 

PM **03:32** :59

Hank’s legs are shaking. He feels like air and concrete all at once. He finds the elevator handrail and clings to it, resting his sweaty temple on the cold wall.

“Are you okay, Lieutenant?” asks Connor.

“Yeah, but I’ll be smelling pigeon shit for weeks.”

Connor smiles vacantly and slips back into mannequin mode, not moving.

Their second elevator ride together is no less awkward for Connor having saved his life. Hank is indebted to Connor, and, for Hank at least, that’s created a new kind of awkwardness. He’d taken some hits for colleagues in his time. Not to be a fucking martyr or anything, but he was always the one throwing himself on the blade for next to no reward. What did you do when someone saved your life? Shake his hand? Suck his dick? What?

“Are _you_ okay?” he asks, settling for casual pleasantries.

Glazed over, Connor nods. His squareness softens an inch or so. “Yes.”

 

PM **06:14** :02

ra9. ra9. ra9. Hank taps it out in a rhythm on his pad. r-a-9. r-a-9. He turns the pad upside-down. Six, A, L? Nine, A, R? Are, A, Nine? Were they initials? A ZIP code? The symbols blur, and Hank rubs his eyes viciously. They feel red and dry. He’s racked with tension. He hasn’t slept in over twenty four hours, and there’s a bitch of a snow storm brewing outside. He’s gonna get called out again for sure. It always happens. He keeps expecting to see Connor pop up at the kitchen window, smiling and waving at him like a crazy stalker, his hair peppered with snowflakes.

Did the DPD know that Connor would imprint on him like a goddamn duckling? Were they laughing it up now that Hank the android-hating derelict had an android stuck on him, following him around like a dirty secret, like herpes? He shouldn’t have been so soft on him. Hank drops his pen and reaches for the Black Lamb. He’d always been too soft.

 

PM **10:06** :32

“Connor, is the light green?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.” Hank steps on the gas.

“We are currently doing forty-four kilometres per hour in a thirty kilometres per hour zone.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It is also inadvisable to steer a moving vehicle and light a cigarette at the same time, Lieutenant.”

Hank is steering with his elbows, keeping the car in a half-assed straight line. “I’ve got it. Don’t you even fucking think about touching the wheel.”

Behind them, The Eden Club is absorbing itself back into the city, melting into the snowfall like a mirage, wanting the world to forget it was ever there. Hank counts to ten and exhales smoke through his nose. The whole shitty ordeal is screwing itself up into a tight, nauseating ball in the pit of his stomach.

 

PM **10:36** :04

Hank squares up to his reflection. The fluorescent light drags down his mouth and makes dull ditches of his eyes. Connor is loitering in his peripheral vision, his officious shoulder angel. “What are you doing, Lieutenant?”

“Questioning my life choices.”

“Captain Fowler is waiting for us.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Seconds pass. Connor leans further into Hank’s line of sight. “So, what are you doing now?”

“Thinking about how I’m going to un-fuck my career and your assignment. Not that I think you deserve it.”

“A wash might make you feel better.”

“Yeah.” That would fucking solve everything. Hank turns on the faucet, loads his hands with liquid soap, and sets to work. Dirt is embedded in his knuckles from where he’d pounded the Traci impotently in her steel-hard ribcage; anything to get her off him. One more tattoo to commemorate his mistakes. He tries to clean another spot. No luck. “Is this mud? Oil? Jeez.” He’s starting to sweat just out of frustration.

Connor paces behind him, absurdly shiny in spite of it all. “Are you ready to go, Lieutenant?” he asks at intervals. The light is playing off a shallow, silvery graze on the back of his head. A memento from where he almost got KO'd on the warehouse floor. The coagulum around the wound has yet to dissolve. It has a gross, chewed bubblegum look to it. So now they were all gonna see that Hank allowed their loaned equipment to be thrown around like a dog toy on its first day. Great.

Hank turns off the water and dries himself with his jacket lining, the only piece of his clothing that doesn’t reek of the gutter. He shuffles lamely in a circle, allowing Connor to inspect him. “How do I look? Like I got my ass whipped by two robot strippers?”

“No.” Connor smiles. “You look good.” Inappropriate, given the circumstances. Hank clears his throat uncomfortably.

“Alright.” He slithers out of the bathroom with Connor close behind.

 

NOV 7TH 2038

AM **12:18** :00

The gist of Fowler’s professional grievances:

Time is short, people are dying, in a perfect world he’d have Hank microchipped or mopping floors, yada, yada, yada. Hank gives him the finger. It isn’t clever or funny-- and doesn’t Fowler let him know it-- but it feels good. And, miraculously, Hank keeps his job. He doesn’t know if it's down to some diplomatic magic worked by Chris on his behalf, but boy did it take a load off.

Outside, the snow is still falling. Connor is walking behind Hank without urgency, preoccupied by how the snowflakes are sticking to his eyelashes. Tired, Hank doubles back and shoves him. “Get in the car.” For once, Connor does as he’s told.

Hank drives aimlessly for a couple blocks then pulls into a gas station on West Fort Street, one of the few still around. He buys two cases of beer. The android cashier advises him to drink responsibly on his way out. “Fuck you, thanks,” says Hank, pocketing his change.

Connor’s nose appears from behind his head rest as Hank loads up the trunk. “Where are we going?”

Hank’s head hurts so fucking bad. Where are we going? An innocent question, or more probing into his personal business? _Where are we going?_ Please. Wasn’t it obvious? Hank slams the trunk lid shut. “Nowhere.”

 

AM **02:21** :39

Stalled investigations turn into long and low episodes. It’s as certain as the phases of the moon. Hank is wedged against the kitchen table in his shirt and boxers, swilling whisky. There’s crushed up Trazodone waiting for him by the microwave, but he has yet to take it. Doesn’t want to.

He’s ordered Connor into the spare room, which is really just a dumping ground for all the shit he doesn't’ want. Put the junk in with the rest of the junk. He can hear the soft sounds of Connor moving around in there. Hank doesn’t know if androids sleep. He’s wrestled the camping bed out of retirement anyway. Force of habit. It’s something his ex used to do. _Hank, my sister’s gonna be here soon, get the bed out._

In the end, Hank vetoed his own idea of ditching Connor at the riverside. Didn’t shoot him either, which was something. As nice as it would be to have Connor out of his hair for good, Hank was no longer in a position to dump CyberLife’s property out on the curb.

Perhaps-- if he dropped Connor off at some random spot outside the city limits, Connor would simply return to CyberLife. What did androids consider ‘home’ to be, anyway? Their owner’s address? The plant where they were born? Hank snorts. Imagine living at the precinct. Or a factory. Or at The Eden Club.

He wonders where those Tracis are now. Plastered with rain and city grime, huddled in an alley someplace? Free, with nowhere to go. Each each other's island. The lump in Hank's throat goes down easy with the dregs in his glass. Sumo wheezes across the room and leans heavily against Hank’s leg, and Hank finally takes his other hand off his revolver, the dependable centrepiece of his kitchen table.

*

Consciousness claws its way out through Hank’s esophagus. He wakes up with a jerk and meets a wave of nausea.

“...Anderson?”

There’s a foggy sensation of someone rolling him over. He tries to fight back, but his arms won’t work. The stranger pins him on his stomach.

“Lie still, Lieutenant.”

Hang spits out a mouthful of his pillow and dry heaves. “Where am I?"

“You’re in your bed.”

The lamp turns on. Connor is stood over him. He is no longer wearing his jacket and tie, and his shirt sleeves are pushed up to his elbows.

The android is in his room. Hank shrinks instinctively under the tangled covers.

“Sleeping while heavily intoxicated can be very dangerous,” says Connor reproachfully. His concern sounds so lifelike. In the half-light he almost looks real. “Try to sleep on your front or on your side, not on your back.”

“Mgh.”

“Do you need to vomit?”

Hank wills the bile back down his gullet. “How did I even get here?”

“I carried you.”

“Bullshit. I weigh over two hundred pounds.”

“It was no trouble.” Connor releases Hank’s wrists. He reaches behind him and picks up a glass of water. He presses it to Hank’s lips. “Here.”

Hank drinks sloppily, aware that Connor is watching him swallow. When he’s finished, Connor places the glass within reach on the nightstand.

Hank blots his chin on his shoulder. “I’ll bet you’re glad this isn’t your main line of work. Can you imagine how many androids there are whose sole function is to wipe people’s asses?”

“Machines cannot bear a grudge, Lieutenant,” says Connor solemnly. “Try thinking of it as impartial and compassionate care for the handicapped.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

AM **06:19** :12

Hank hits snooze on the alarm and drowses for a while. When he opens his eyes, Connor is there, holding a mug. Hank nearly jumps out of his skin. Unperturbed, Connor says, “I sensed that you were entering the final REM stage of sleep, so I made you some coffee.”

“Uh, thanks.” Hank takes the mug, which is piping hot.

Connor becomes engrossed with one of the photographs hanging on the wall. It’s the one of Cole as a baby, playing with his toys in the bath.

“Your son looks like you.”

Hank laughs. “I should hope.” He’s deflecting. Hearing Cole’s name hurts him like nothing else. “Can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not.” 

“I find it interesting how humans inherit their parent’s physical traits. Perhaps I’ve inherited some traits from my creator, too.”

“He look like you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”

Hank takes a sip of Connor’s coffee and winces. It's blacker than Hades. He cradles it instead, letting it warm his hands.

So androids thought of their inventor as a parent. Maybe they’d been taught that; something to spare them from the truth of their existence: that they were nothing but sex and free labor to be shoved into society’s cracks. Humanity’s big way of flipping off God. That’s why there were more androids than test tube babies walking around.

Connor is examining another photograph; the one of Cole sitting on a swing at the park, grinning into the camera, big gaps in his smile where he was starting to lose his baby teeth.

“Was she attractive?” asks Connor abruptly.

“Was who attractive?”

“Your wife.”

Hank, riled, manages to sit up. He rakes the lank hair out of his mouth. “You never stop, do you?”

Connor recoils slightly. “I was only asking. Sexual attractiveness is a human characteristic. It is a concept unfamiliar to androids.” Then, “Do you want to see her again?”

“Hell no.”

“Would you ever want another wife?”

Hank rolls his eyes. “Look at me, Connor.”

Connor responds distractedly, unsure of what’s being asked of him. “Well, I can tell that you’re a white male. Normally developed.”

Androids did not understand the rhetorical, either. Hank sits back against the headboard, amused. “Go on.”

“You have poor visual acuity, yet you refuse to wear glasses. You have a fixed bridge over your first and second right maxillary cuspid. And enamel erosion, from high sugar consumption.”

Hank holds his hand up. “I rest my case.”

“And from frequent vomiting,” adds Connor, eyeing Hank’s rancid t-shirt. Hank doesn’t have anything to say to that.

Connor pulls his gaze away from the photograph. “Am _I_ attractive, Lieutenant?” His brow perks up at the end of the question, a sort of Connor-ism.

“Uh, yeah, sure. Objectively speaking.”

“Objectively?” The word has _wow, real fucking spineless, Hank_ written all over it.

Hank scratches his stomach, floundering. “Well… they wouldn’t make ugly androids, would they? You wouldn’t buy a three thousand dollar sofa if you thought it was ugly.”

“I see…”

Oops. “Fuck, sorry. That wasn’t a good analogy.”

Connor’s LED dims meditatively. He freezes and unfreezes several times. “If it helps,” he says after a while, cogitating each word, “when I hear your voice, which is unique from all other voices, I experience an increased inflow of positive data.” (Again with the techno jargon.) Connor continues. “When I detect certain strains of tobacco, I am reminded of you. Attending to your needs affirms my purpose as a partner and confidant. So, if how we relate to the concept of attractiveness is at all comparable, then it’s not unreasonable for me to say that I think you’re beautiful, Lieutenant.”

“Christ.” Hank smears his face into the damp mattress. “Thanks, mom.”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No. Only one of the weirdest things anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Then I’ll rescind my previous statement.”

“Or can you not talk any more, period?”

“Yes, if that’s what you want.”

When Hank comes up for air, Connor has shut off. His eyes are closed, and his LED is swimming in dreamy circles, around and around. One hand is resting neatly in his lap, the other on Hank’s pillow.

Up close, Connor has a whiff of the lab about him. Sterile. Not ‘lived in’ yet. _Like a new car_ , thinks Hank wryly. His breath is dry, too. Another misfire. It has no odor, other than something faintly electrical, like hot dust. A blue smell. The scattering of freckles on his forearms are perfunctorily cut and pasted on, each imperfection mirrored perfectly with another on the opposite side. Connor’s face, with all its fuzz and fine wrinkles, really is all for show.

Connor stirs, and opens his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“Nah. Just thinking. Go back to sleep, or whatever it is you do.”

“You do a lot of thinking, Lieutenant.” Connor smiles fondly, and closes his eyes again. “So do I.”

 

NOV 8TH 2038

AM **08:32** :00

“Here, Lieutenant.” Connor slides a sealed specimen pouch across Hank’s desk. “It’s the bullet they took out of my old body.”

Hank scowls at it. He has to stop pretending to work for this? “Why would I want to see that?”

“I thought you might find it interesting.”

Hank sighs, takes the bag, and holds it up to the light. The bullet, fired from mere feet away, had been flattened to a dime upon impact with Connor’s forehead.

“My central processor is bulletproof,” says Connor, stating the obvious. “It involves two hundred coats of liquid polymer. That’s forty-two hours of machine labor.” Hank pictures using Connor’s head for target practice, the bullets bouncing cartoonishly off his skull. Earlier, Connor informed Hank-- without a hint of irony-- that an android’s brain was the size of a chicken’s egg.

Hank hands the bag back across the desk, not looking at it. “Very nice.”

Connor frowns. “ _Nice?_ ” He deflates a little, then brightens. He gets it! “You’re tired. I’ll go make you some more coffee.” He leaves his chair and glides away.

Hank goes back to puzzling over what he has open in his browser.

> **beautiful**
> 
> adjective
> 
> _having beauty; possessing qualities that give great pleasure or satisfaction to see, hear, think about, etc.; delighting the senses or mind._

He pulls up another tab.

> _Questions? Complaints? Comments? Report an error to CyberLife._
> 
> _Your opinion matters! Your feedback will be used to make the CyberLife experience better for you!_

The text field is empty, waiting. Hank types something in.

 

[I think my android is coming on to me. Thoughts?]

 

Sighing very deeply, hating himself, he hits delete.

**Author's Note:**

> I sat up for about four consecutive nights writing this. I feel as though my crumbling sanity formed its foundation. LOL.  
> Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
